


Magic with Baking

by CeleryThesis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 14:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12985854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CeleryThesis/pseuds/CeleryThesis
Summary: Inspired by Baking with Magic, Chapter 6 of 25 Days of Drawing by MyWitch.





	Magic with Baking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWitch/gifts), [Toblass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toblass/gifts).
  * Inspired by [25 Days of Drawing - 2017](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12881826) by [MyWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyWitch/pseuds/MyWitch). 



Hermione arrived home at seven fifty-two, arms completely full with her work bag and a canvas shopping tote laden with items from the most intimidating aisle at the grocers. That she wasn’t tripping over a demanding Crooks was her first bit of good news of the day: Severus was home, and the kneazle was eating out of his dish under the kitchen table.

“Hello Boy; Daddy gave you your dinner?”

The orange creature raised his head a fraction and then turned his body away from her.

“Lovely to see you, too.”

She put her work bag down on the catch-all table by the door and carried in groceries. High quality dark chocolate, high quality white chocolate, high quality vanilla, per the recipe. She had no way of judging the worth of any of these ingredients aside from price, so she had already invested more in this project than a week’s worth of lunches. Smallest package of flour, unsalted butter, double cream, single cream, eggs, vanilla bean, caster sugar.  

The recipe book was Severus’s, and she consulted it again before she began work on the shell. She could hear the shower running upstairs. He had been away at a conference in Vienna for four days, and she had been in the middle of a project at work in the two days before he left, so she had hardly spoken to him in a week. She wished she could abandon this project and join him. Blasted tart. Blasted party. Blasted Christmas.

_Combine flour, butter, salt until the mixture has the texture of course breadcrumbs._

She washed her hands and began to dump measured ingredients into an aluminium mixing bowl. Her boots were pinching her feet, she was still wearing her cloak, and she desperately needed the loo, she realized as she began to position her wand to achieve the mixing strokes necessary. She sighed heavily and attended to her needs. When she returned feeling better in stockinged feet, the contents of the bowl did not increase her confidence.

“Bread crumbs, bread crumbs, bread crumbs,” she sighed under her breath as she rotated her wand carefully. By the time the flour and butter resembled anything in the crumb family, her wrist wanted to detach itself from her arm and land with her hand with on the linoleum. She gently formed a ball with the crumbs that seemed excessively crumbly and secured it with cling film before hitting it with a cooling charm.

_On to the custard._ The dark chocolate required chopping, so she retrieved one of Severus’s sharpest knives and began the work on a wooden board. When it was a shredded, in a most inartful pile, she started at the cooker with the cream and sugar and vanilla extract, not bean, which was for some future intimidating step. _Bring to a boil slowly_.

Her skirt was pinching her waist as she stirred, and she could feel the rising steam start to fluff out her hair. She unhooked the top of her skirt and when that was still not enough, she pulled under it to remove her tights, which she flung across the room, almost making the wicker basket in the corner. She cast a warming spell on the cold kitchen floor.

She was adding the chocolate and butter in small batches because _why would we do anything simply_ when she heard him on the stairs. Her heart fluttered.

“Ambitious,” his voice rumbled across the space, and other things fluttered.

“Terribly,” she tried to keep serious focus on her work, but she couldn’t keep the smile from her lips. She could see him in her periphery. He was wearing black wool trousers and an unbuttoned crisp white shirt on his bare chest. His long hair he kept contained in a plait down his back for work was hanging loose and damp. It seemed as if he had cast a half-hearted drying charm and then felt compelled to abandon it because he couldn’t wait to see her. She could feel the colour rise in her cheeks. He was behind her so close and he whispered, “Hello, Love,” before he brushed the curls from her neck and planted a kiss there.

“Mmmm,” she responded, feeling her whole body begin to warm at his touch.

“What are you…” he amended the question mid-sentence, “WHY are you doing this?”

She sighed, keeping up her stirring with one hand while caressing the side of his head with the other. She turned her face to his and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “Missed you,” she murmured, and he kissed her lightly again in response. “Faculty Christmas party tomorrow. I drew dessert, and the marvelous things people bring in…I thought I could handle a chocolate tart.”

“It’s not a competition,” he said.

“Of course it is,” she said, scoffing at him. Everything was at work and most other aspects of life were a competition, of course.

“Have you had dinner?”

“No. I was working until seven fifteen and then raced to Sainsburys. The cupboard is bare, I’m afraid.”

She tended to grab simple meals when he was away. When he was home, the kitchen was his realm, and he prepared them wondrous dishes every night.

He left her side to look through the pantry in hopes of improvising a meal. She felt the loss immediately, but the custard appeared to be reaching the correct consistency. She took a careful taste. Fine; nothing spectacular.

Severus had gathered a bag of rice, an onion and a bottle of white wine and was beginning to prepare risotto. “Time to add the eggs,” he said with a bit of glee.

“What if I just turn the project over to you and your superior skills?” she said hopefully.

“Not. A. Chance. And _Elsbeth’s_ is a perfectly fine bakery for an easy morning stop.”

“O, ye of little faith!” she said and then sent a tiny prayer above before she attempted egg tempering. He was sautéing his expertly chopped onion and hovering over her as she poured in the tiniest stream of hot mixture into her bowl of beaten eggs. _Oh, that man._ Motivated by lust but also that competitive spirit, she turned her face again to his, but this time snogged him proper, demanding entrance into his mouth with her tongue. In one motion, he flicked out his wand and lowered the temperature under both pans before turning fully to her and drawing her close to his body, kissing her passionately throughout.

“Oh, I missed you,” she gasped into his mouth.

“Did you now?”  

She answered by threading her arms into his open shirt and running her hand along his chest. He discovered her unfastened skirt and pushed it down and her jumper up and off in one fluid motion while he was using his lips, teeth, and tongue to great affect at her ear.

“The pink one,” he growled low.

She was wearing his favourite bra—a happy accident as she had neglected the washing and being somewhat an impractical colour with most of her work blouses, it had been last one in the drawer.

“Just for you.”

She could feel him growing hard against her belly, and she wrapped a leg around his hip. She was wearing laundry day knickers as well, a skimpy black thong that was hardly worth the effort. He put one thumb in string on her left hip and pulled down, and then followed them to the floor, snatching up the scrap of cloth and depositing it in his breast pocket before pulling her close once again.

She glanced at the cooker and saw her custard looking a bit gummy, so she gave it a stir with her wand, but she was quite preoccupied with her naked quim against his wool trousers—a sensory experience all its own. She groaned against the side of his face.

“Beautiful wife,” he murmured in her ear.

She put her leg down and rose on her tip-toes, so she could kiss him and be eye to eye, though both had them closed. She caressed the side of his face, fingers brushing against his long hair. He reached behind her and unclasped the bra letting it fall to the linoleum with a soft plop. The sound heralded a whirlwind of flicking wands, lengthening table legs, and flying ingredients. He lifted her up and set her down on the table top as she unbuttoned the front of his trousers and took him out. He made a quick adjustment to the height of the table and then plunged inside her, making her gasp and then sigh.

She would never be able to smell chocolate custard again without recalling that evening on the table. They had stayed connected for minutes after they had both finished, pressed against each other and not wanting to let go. Finally, he had disentangled and turned to the hob.

“The risotto will be fine,” he said, pouting two glasses of wine. “But the tart…”

“ _Elsbeth’s_ is on the way to work,” she said and clinked his glass before donning her jumper, discarding the custard pan in the sink and ball of crumbs into the bin, and watching him prepare their dinner.


End file.
